Now I Know My ABC's
by girl in the glen
Summary: This completed collection of short stories is based on the alphabet and was originally part of the ABC Affair Challenge on Section VII at Live Journal. I hope you enjoy learning your ABC's all over again. Comments are always welcome.
1. Chapter 1: A Is For Amaretto

" _Acrimonious_? You think my reply was... acrimonious?" Illya nodded in that way he had of barely moving his head, a mere hint of assent to the other man's heated question.

"You, my friend, are the most cool headed individual I have ever met. Except for the confrontation you just had with Lisa Rogers. Even I felt a little sorry for the poor woman, the way you accosted her with that verbal attack."

Now Napoleon was feeling a little sorry himself, he wasn't usually so emotional about this sort of thing.

"So, you probably think I should go back and apologize don't you." Again, the little nod from the blond.

With a huge sigh of resignation the CEA of UNCLE Northwest grabbed his jacket and headed for the elevator. He would need to go back to the scene of the crime, as it were, and hope the fiery Lisa was not completely engulfed in flames. Not real flames, although he had an image in his mind as he headed out of Del Floria's.

The walk back to the restaurant was not a long one, although facing Lisa alone would be almost as dangerous as a THRUSH interrogation. Napoleon could only hope she would accept his apology and forgive the outburst. Still, there had been good reasoning behind his argument. Well, perhaps that was debatable.

There is was, looming before him: Luigi's Italian Restaurant. Lisa would still be inside, her job had been to set up all of the details for a dinner party to be held there later that evening. Mr. Waverly would be hosting several dignitaries, and insuring his well being would be a hefty entourage of Section III agents, as well as Napoleon and Illya.

Napoleon spotted Lisa, still chatting with the chef and making notes about the dinner. The dinner. That was the source of his, ahh... what had Illya said? Acrimonious comment. Well, he had good reason to object to one of her menu selections, and he wasn't entirely certain he could overlook it completely. First though, the apology.

Napoleon made his way past the quaint assortment of tables and chairs, mismatched and worn by time and use. The charm of Luigi's was that it actually felt like someone's home rather than a restaurant. The big brick fireplace kept the room warm in the winter, while large French doors leading out onto the small patio made for pleasant outdoor dining in good weather. Lisa was seated at one of the larger tables next to Alessandro, the head chef. Thankfully, he hadn't been present when Napoleon and Lisa had their little disagreement.

"Hello again. May I join you?" Lisa looked up at Solo and smiled, no sign of the previous encounter. Napoleon wasn't sure how to take that, but he sat down when she nodded yes.

"Napoleon, I'm glad you came back. I think we've made some real progress here. It seems you were right, and although it may not have required quite as much passion as you gave it, Alessandro has informed me that indeed, cappuccino with dinner is inappropriate." Napoleon was speechless at the turnaround. His smile was slow and deliberate, just in case there was a catch to all of this.

"Well, that sounds about right. And you're okay with that?' He canted his head to one side, an involuntary reaction when he was curious and marginally stupefied.

"Oh, and... _sigh._.. Lisa, please accept my apology for, how did you put it... my passion. I am so sorry for overreacting the way I did." Now the Solo charm was kicking in, something that Lisa Rogers recognized and accepted as the man's bread and butter.

"Napoleon, you are a gourmand, a man of taste and experience. I should not have doubted you. Apology accepted." Her smile was ... menacing. Napoleon had no choice but to let it rest and leave the rest of the dinner plans to Miss Rogers. But something about her response, her smile, her tone of voice...

"Thank you Lisa, and continue on. I'm confident that the evening will be a great success and that Mr. Waverly will be very pleased with all of your, um, efforts. I guess I better get back but I'll see you tonight.' Napoleon bade farewell to Lisa and the chef, waving as he walked across the restaurant to the door.

"Mr. Solo, hello." It was Luigi himself, the congenial host and owner of Napoleon's favorite Italian restaurant.

"Luigi, how are you? I expect tonight will be quite an extraordinary dinner, as are all of the meals I've had here." The older man beamed from the praise.

"I know my staff will do their very best. I have only just now received the case of Disoronno requested by Miss Rogers."

That made Napoleon stop. Amaretto, often served with coffee, or cappuccino. So, Lisa admitted that Napoleon was right, but she was going to serve cappuccino spiked with amaretto as an after dinner drink. He sighed in resignation, his battle for authenticity was lost to a worthy opponent.

Lisa Rogers was not to be underestimated. Ever. Actually, Napoleon did enjoy a little cappuccino amaretto now and then.

Score one for Miss Rogers.


	2. Chapter 2: B Is For Bogus

_Bwaahaahahahaa..._

"Did you hear that?" Napoleon looked around suspiciously as he prodded his partner for a positive response to his question. Illya was standing as still as a statue, his pale complexion a few shades lighter than normal.

"I did. Why do these THRUSH have to be so bizarre? Why not a good old fashioned villain who simply commits a crime and then surrenders amidst a hail of gunfire? Why the special effects?" The Russian was not amused, nor was he at ease among the strange props that lined the room in which the two agents found themselves.

 _Bwahahahaha..._

"Okay, that's enough of the nonsense...' Napoleon pulled out his Special and took aim at what he suspected was the source of the eerie sounds.

"One shot, one down. What do you say Illya?" And with that he fired at the reflection of a dark figure that had emerged from behind a colorful paper mache' flamingo. The flamingo waivered slightly as the dart whizzed past and struck its mark. A man in dark clothing and a hooded cape fell headlong into the mirror that had betrayed him. Napoleon and Illya ran to the spot, unwilling to allow this one to get away.

"What do we have here, hmmm?" Napoleon pulled back the hood and was surprised at the face revealed. Illya recognized him as well, swearing silently in Russian as he pulled the man up and onto his feet.

"Hector Billings? What are you doing here, and how did you get involved with THRUSH?" It was Napoleon asking the questions, but Billings kept his eye on the blond as he cowered now before the two men he had taunted previously. Hector worked in the commisary as a line cook. This had to be a mistake.

''Mr. Solo, you can do whatever you want to me. I am a harbinger of.. uh... harbinger of ... " The sleep dart had done its work, leaving nothing to do but get Hector back to Headquarters.

A full medical exam uncovered drugs in Hector's system other than the sedative from the dart. He had gone on one trip too many, and with all the talk of THRUSH and other criminals on UNCLE's radar, his foray into their world had been the result of his latest round of hallucinogens. This episode would lead to more stringent drug testing for UNCLE employees, and a medical leave of absence for Mr. Billings. No harm had been done, merely the empty threat that had led Solo and Kuryakin to the abandoned Fun House where they finally caught Doctor Harm.

"I wonder where he came up with that name?" Napoleon was still puzzling over the strange encounter with their deranged cook. Illya merely chalked it up to the current cultural influences and a young man's need to find a place of importance.

'' I suppose he felt invisible at his job, behind the scenes as it were. It was the wrong direction, obviously, but with time he may see the cause of his behavior and turn around, do something meaningful." Napoleon just stared at his partner, almost unbelieving at the philosophic turn of things, especially from the taciturn Russian.

"Yeah, well... Listen, are you hungry?"

"Famished."

"Let's go eat, my treat."

That usually solved everything.


	3. Chapter 3: C Is For Caution

"Ciao baby, and _don't come back!"_

Illya winced slightly as he heard the rude remark being shouted out by his partner. It was unlike Napoleon to use that tone with a woman, and yet it was happening now, in public.

"Don't you worry _baby,_ you'll not see my face again until it's time to watch your sorry self lowered into a grave. Adios and good riddance! And that goes for the Old Man too!"

The volatile rebuff was equally rude, equally vitriolic. These two were putting on a good show. Napoleon turned to his partner and tried to maintain his angry demeanor. In truth he could never be that angry with Agent Dancer.

"What do you think, was I adequately brutish?" Napoleon seemed pleased with himself, he didn't often get to play someone so ... unlikable.

"I assure you, the scene I just witnessed will convince anyone watching that the two of you are quite done. I believe she is going to be welcomed into the Wilmington satrapy with open arms and less suspicion; probably a lot of questions though."

Napoleon was thoughtful as he watched April drive away. The mission was not without its dangers, in spite of what could now be considered her departure from UNCLE. Thankfully, Mark was already in place within the complex and posing as one of the maintenance crew on the grounds of the big estate. Solo and Kuryakin would be close by, ready to step into place when the time came.

For now, it was business as usual. Which, by the very nature of things, was always quite unusual.


	4. Chapter 4: D Is For Daylight

Dawn came too quickly. The sun was a fierce combination of reds and oranges, with a white rim that blinded the man watching it fill the sky. Illya Kuryakin was in trouble, his left leg throbbing as blood seeped through the shirt he had used as a tourniquet. That meant he was shirtless, vulnerable to the effects of the coming day; the probability of a sunburn was a minor concern in the face of his current predicament.

"Oh Napoleon, where have you gone?" Illya hadn't seen his partner since they parted ways in an attempt to throw off the chase by several THRUSH, each of them hoping the diversion would work in spite of the determination on the part of their pursuers. Napoleon had jumped a fence behind an ancient cottage, much to the surprise of the old woman who was hanging her wash to dry. Illya's own escape plans were thwarted as he dodged to avoid crashing into a young woman and her two little girls. They had appeared from nowhere, or so it seemed as their paths intersected in a narrow alley. Illya had no choice but to let them pass, allowing his pursuers to gain ground and, when the obstruction had passed, take aim at their prey.

Illya felt the bruising sting of a bullet as it passed through his thigh, missing bone but boring a hole that hadn't stopped providing a sieve for the blood he was losing. He was still slightly disbelieving at having lost the two men, but somehow he had managed it. Now he had temporary refuge among spent shocks of corn, yellowed with the passing of time and abandoned by a farmer who thought the field not worth clearing. Illya blended into the forest of stalks and weeds, his hair the color of cornsilk, a pair of tan corduroy jeans like the dirt on which he sat. It was dumb luck that he had found this spot, but so far luck was oozing away along with his supply of blood. He didn't have the strength to move on, and so he leaned against a pile of the dried up corn shocks and, like a scarecrow stripped of purpose, Illya gave in to the sun and his eventual demise.

Napoleon Solo lost the THRUSH who were chasing him, resting for the night in a barn conveniently empty and perfect for hiding out from one's enemies. In the morning he awoke and went in search of his partner.

When next Illya Kuryakin awoke, he saw not a blazing sun, but rather the face of his friend and partner. That was all he needed to see, and so he closed his eyes again, confident that all was well.


	5. Chapter 5: E Is For Euphoria

Euphoria is something rare and wonderful, and not the usual state of mind for an agent of the United Network Command for Law Enforcement. It is most certainly not the usual for the Russian among the ranks of that organization, and yet on this day it was euphoria that permeated his entire being.

Unfortunately for Illya Kuryakin, it wasn't a natural high, but instead the result of having been a guinea pig of sorts for another THRUSH drug that was destined for an unwitting population of innocent people in an as yet undetermined location.

The thinking had been, according to the prelude endured by Agent Kuryakin, that if it worked on him, the taciturn and generally disagreeable Russian, then it would probably work on anyone. It was not a flattering speech, and Kuryakin had been determined to not yield to the drug's effects. Unfortunately for him, and to the delight of the scientists who engineered the Happy Pill, it worked like a charm.

"He's quite a good singer that one." Humphrey Dingle was from Yorkshire, England. He had been on a scholarship to Cambridge when he was approached by a charming woman who lured him into the halls of THRUSH even as he attended those ancient ones of academia. Standing here now, his serum a triumph over a habitual pessimist, he felt grateful for the money poured into his research by the Hierarchy.

"And quite good looking when he's happy. I … well, um…" Vera Sanders bit her lip, she shouldn't go on about the blond's attributes, it was too revealing.

Dingle caught that bit of wistfulness, something he could only wish were directed towards him instead of this other man. He looked at his subject more closely, not able to understand Vera's fascination with the man.

"I reckon he won't be so handsome after Central gets done with him.' Humphrey's tone softened as he added:

"You won't need to be here when he is picked up, it might upset you." In spite of a tingle of jealousy, he wanted to protect Vera as much as possible.

"Thank you doctor, I find those, um… well, they can be a bit brutal with the prisoners." Vera knew what was in store for the blond, and in an instant she knew what had to be done.

"Doctor Dingle, did you get the message that the captain of the guards wanted to see you?" Humphrey raised an eyebrow, his distaste for the day to day needs of others on this site seemed inconsequential compared to his work.

"No, no I did not. That man is a cretan, never able to simply carry out his duties without involving me unnecessarily." With a harrumph, he pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose with one finger and turned to go find the troublesome man in charge of the guards.

"Take care with that one, Vera. He only looks harmless." Humphrey hoped he could make Kuryakin sound disreputable to the lovely Vera. He was not optimistic concerning his efforts.

Vera smiled at the departing scientist, making a point to sit down and rifle through some paperwork, as though she intended to busy herself at a distance from the UNCLE agent. As soon as the door closed behind Dingle, Vera was up and about her own mission. She found the antidote to the serum and filled a syringe, and approaching Illya she tried to speak to him in soothing tones as she plugged the needle into his arm.

"Chyort!" Illya's euphoria was interrupted by the sting of the needle, and within seconds the effects of the drug began to wane, succumbing to the antidote just as Vera had hoped it would.

"Mr. Kuryakin? Illya, do you know where you are?" Vera wanted to make certain he was lucid before making any kind of escape. She had wanted out of THRUSH for some time now, her naiveté concerning the Hierarchy fading with each day under its heavy hand. Illya Kuryakin was her ticket out of here, and in truth she did fancy the man. It was a romantic fantasy she knew would never come to be, but Vera intended to get him out of here and free from the threat of THRUSH Central.

Illya looked wildly around the room, his recognition of a THRUSH lair was becoming clear. The woman was helping him…

"Are you rescuing me?" He didn't intend for it to sound flirtatious, obviously the effects of some drug were still influencing his behavior.

"Yes, yes I am. And you are rescuing me, because I don't think I can get out of here without you. Do you understand?" Illya nodded his head, it was beginning to throb slightly. Yes, definitly THRUSH drugs.

lllya's instincts kicked in quickly, and within minutes he and Vera made their way through the maze of halls, encountering only two guards who were quickly and efficiently put down with an agent's precision. Vera had samples of the serum and antidote inside her lab coat pocket, protected by a leather case. They were her entree´ into UNCLE, hopefully to become a member of that team, the good team. She had also thought to retrieve Illya's gun and communicator, which he gladly accepted from her.

Illya found a room full of explosives and ammunition, another instinct fully realized. He quickly grabbed something to rig an explosion at the exit point to which they were heading. It would delay any kind of pursuit if he did it just right.

As Illya and Vera watched from a distance, a cloud of fire and debris went up from the compound. She hoped no one was hurt, although she realized their intentions for Illya had been deadly. It was a game everyone agreed to play, and they knew the risks involved.

Illya opened his communicator and called in his location, thanks to Vera. As he looked at her now he realized she was a very attractive woman, and he recognized the signs of infatuation to which he had become accustomed. He sighed in resignation to repeating these scenarios over and over again.

In the euphoria of the drug Illya had imagined happy endings, just as he knew Vera was doing now. They probably wouldn't materialize, but in the spirit of doing the right thing, he was willing to help ease her into a more viable reality.

Perhaps there was a bit of euphoria left for them both.


	6. Chapter 6: F Is For Finally

Frantically searching for his partner, Napoleon Solo knew there were only a few minutes left on the clock before the bomb would take out half a city block and everyone on it. He had last seen Illya Kuryakin in a cell, but that was before a round of drugs and several beatings. For some reason the guy in charge of this hell hole had separated them, by several floors it now seemed.

"Illya! Illya Kuryakin!" Napoleon was yelling at the top of his lungs, no longer fearful of the enemy. Most of them were gone now, fleeing to get distance between them and the potential disaster planned by the the chief lunatic, Lester Pinchot. The Frenchman was a madman of THRUSH proportions, and his plan to blow up a section of Brooklyn was on track at the moment.

A rattling noise caught Solo's attention. It was just a few yards away and it had to be Illya. He hoped it was. Running now as fast as his weary legs could manage, Napoleon came to the spot and, sure enough, Illya was inside banging a chain against the iron rods that separated him from safety.

"Illya, just hold on, I'm gonna get you out of there. Napoleon had been searched, beaten and otherwise thoroughly interrogated. But the THRUSH goons hadn't found the one thing that would change everything. He pulled a button off of his shirt and motioned for Illya to stand back, as did Solo; aiming for the lock he tossed the first button with precision accuracy, causing a small explosion. The cell door swung wide with the impact of it, allowing Napoleon to enter and set about freeing Illya from the shackle he had used to summon his partner.

"Okay my friend, this is going to hurt a little." Napoleon placed the button on the wall where the chain was secured. Hopefully the length of it would allow him and Illya to avoid any serious damage. He threw another length of chain towards the wall, intending to hit something as he did so.

Bam! Smoke and bits of old brick spewed out from the explosion, pelting the two agents with bits of it, and successfully separating Illya from the wall. He would have to drag the remnant of the chain until they got back to Headquarters or found a key, but for now they had to get to the bomb and disarm it. Napoleon knew he would have to explain to his friend why he hadn't disarmed it first before rescuing Illya, but the reprimand would be minor compared to the grief he would have endured had he failed at both.

The bomb was located in the basement of the old building. Illya quickly disarmed it while Napoleon called Headquarters from a telephone handily located on a desk in the room; it had served as an office of some sort by all appearances. The bomb squad would finish up here, and a ride was coming to take Solo and Kuryakin back to give their report to Mr. Waverly.

As they were riding back towards Headquarters, Illya finally asked the question.

"So, why didn't you just disarm that bomb before you came to find me? You risked doing what should have been your primary objective." Illya wasn't mad, or disappointed. He was grateful, as he always was when his partner came through for him.

"You know why. Tell me you wouldn't have done the same." Napoleon looked straight into Illya's

eyes, searching for any kind of disapproval or recriminatory attitude. He was relieved to find neither.

Illya nodded his head. His throbbing head. THRUSH drugs were the bane of his life.

"Of course I would have done exactly the same thing. But, you knew I would ask."

Napoleon had to smile. Yes, of course his partner had to ask. They would always save each other, and save the day.

Solo and Kuryakin, best team on the planet.


	7. Chapter 7: G Is For Gone

Gone. Everything was gone and no one or nothing could bring it back.

Illya Kuryakin stood in the middle of what had been a house, a home. He knew the people who lived there and were now… gone.

"Hey Illya, I think I found something." Napoleon was there, searching through the rubble of a fire ravaged structure that had once been a family home. He knew Illya was acquainted with them, immigrants from Russia whose family had once known Kuryakin's, before the war.

"I don't see that it matters. At least it seems that no one was here when the fire started, but why did it start…' His voice trailed off before his question was complete. Illya stooped down and looked more closely at something beneath a pile of charred books.

"Napoleon, over here. I think there's something of importance." Napoleon stopped what he was doing, still holding the medallion he had found.

"Look at this." Illya was pointing with a blackened piece of cutlery, poking at something. Napoleon knelt down to get a better look.

"Well, what do you know." With gloves on and his shirt sleeves already rolled up, Napoleon pushed aside some burnt fabric and pulled up on the object Illya had found.

"What is this?" Napoleon could see what looked like cyrillic writing on the front of some type of notebook. He looked at Illya, whose face had turned ashen. Something was definitely not right.

Illya took the notebook, his heart sinking as his memories of service in the GRU brought back images of similar bound texts and assignment ledgers. Only this one wasn't GRU, it was KGB.

"They were spies." Napoleon looked confused at hearing those words.

"Spies? You mean, they were Soviet spies? I thought you knew these people."

"So did I." Illya's response was icy, his mind racing with scenarios and memories that now skewed with a new revelation. He wondered if one or the other of this couple had been responsible for his father's imprisonment. They had known his family before the war, before his musician father was taken as part of the great purge of the Russian creative communities. His mother had died because of betrayal, and now he had to wonder if these people had been part of that misery.

"Meeting them here was purely chance Napoleon. They must have reported it and been instructed to … disappear. We will never find them, they're gone."

Napoleon knew there would be repercussions to this, both from Mr. Waverly and from the Soviets. Of course the KGB couldn't admit that they had spies or that those spies weren't really victims of this fire. But they would be watching Kuryakin to monitor his actions now.

"You're not going to go looking for them are you? I mean, what would be the point?" Napoleon could only hope his partner, his friend, would just let it go. No matter what the past was in regard to these people, it wasn't worth risking the Russian's future.

"I'm fine Napoleon. I am not intending some rash action. I know what is at stake, so rest assured I will not rock this boat. At least not now, not while everyone is watching me."

It would do for now. This family of spies was gone, but Illya's past would always color his present.


	8. Chapter 8: H Is For Hyper

"Holy Cow Napoleon! That's a centrimetrical atmospheric diodal manipulator. Where did you get it?" Brandon Lightner was from the labs at UNCLE New York.. He was very excited about the gadget brought to him by the CEA, Napoleon Solo.

"I mean, I expect stuff like this from your partner, Mr. Kuryakin. I mean, he's the scientist and sort of the brainiac… ' Brandon talked fast and sometimes he overshot himself.

"I mean, you are a smart man, Mr. Solo, um.. Napoleon. I just mean that,well, with his degrees and all, well… I mean, Mr. Kuryakin is, um… well, Doctor Kuryakin. Right?" The hold wasn't quite as deep as Brandon feared, but he was in danger of falling into something.

"Look Brandon, I know Illya is a doctor of physics. But sometimes I get to bring home the goodies, you know what I mean?" He smiled, that charming Solo smile intended to put people at ease and, in some cases, make them stop talking.

"Illya will be down in a bit, but I wanted to find out what this thing does. We recovered it at a THRUSH agent's apartment, and it seemed like an odd thing for him to be carrying around on his own. What does it do?" Brandon was taking it all in, his eyes glued to the 'gadget' in question.

"Didn't doctor, um… Mr. Kuryakin explain it to you?" Surely Illya knew what this thing is.

"Illya was a little out of commission, he ran into something big and very solid." In truth, the THRUSH whose apartment they had broken into had arrived back at the scene, taking out the Russian with one punch as Napoleon shot him with a sleep dart. Both of them were now in Medical, one in the agent's section, the other in restraints.

"Oh… Okay. Well, let me explain it to you then." And so he did, a long and meandering speech about weather and pulses and something totally incomprehensible to the otherwise 'smart' Mr. Solo.

"That's great Brandon. You hold onto that, investigate it and write a report. I'll let Mr. Kuryakin know it's in good hands." Napoleon was relieved to leave the lab behind him as he headed towards Medical to check on his partner.

Illya was awake, his face turning blue from the punch and the ice pack on his cheek. He groaned a greeting to Napoleon.

"So, did Brandon fill you in on the device?" Illya could tell from the look on Napoleon's face that most of it had been like a vapor to the disinterested man. Napoleon liked to know the gist of things, but he didn't insist on understanding all of the science behind it.

"Brandon is a good kid, but I was glad to get out of there. You can go down and check on things when your head clears."

What Illya wanted was a stiff drink and a long nap. That guy had delivered a wicked left hook.

"Fine by me. For now, I'd like to go home. Get me out of here and I'll buy dinner." Napoleon feigned a shocked expression. He intended to take advantage of the moment however, and quickly arranged to take his partner home. Dinner was a nice end to an otherwise hectic day, including the science talk from Brandon.

"Thank for dinner Illya, it's always good when it's from Luigi's. Now, take some aspirin and get some rest. You'll need it to spend a day in the labs with Brandon." Illya had to smile at that. He had once had that kind of enthusiasm for science, although it had waned slightly with his involvement in enforcement. Perhaps a day with someone whose intensity ran with the same curiosity and enthusiasm as he had once possessed would be good for him.

"I shall make the best of it, my friend." The two friends said their good nights and mentally prepared for another day.

Illya got into his bed and fell asleep almost instantly. In his dreams, he was once again a young man with a dream of exploring the secrets of the universe, or even the multiverse.

He slept very well indeed.


	9. Chapter 9: I Is For Instinct

Innocence is the starting point.

Not everyone can claim innocence when seen from the vantage point of justice.

Illya Kuryakin had trouble believing in the concept of innocence, he had seen too much.

Napoleon, on the other hand, often had a more generous outlook.. It didn't hurt if the view was of a beautiful woman. In spite of the treachery he had encountered, it was still difficult to assign guilt while making love to someone, even if she intended to kill you afterwards.

Illya saw it, saw her and recognized the treachery. If he didn't intervene…

He shot her first.


	10. Chapter 10: J Is For Jake

"Jack of all trades, that's how they describe me." The fellow speaking was a big guy, with a mane of red hair and a smile the width of his broad face.

Napoleon Solo felt dwarfed as he looked up at Jake Jones, and had a sudden realization of how it must feel to be Illya Kuryakin. He hadn't worked with him yet but seeing him around Headquarters Solo had thought the Russian agent must surely be underweight for the job.

"So Jake, if I may call you that…' The big guy nodded, prompting Napoleon to continue.

"So, I have heard some things about a couple of men who paid you a visit. What exactly did they ask you to do? I mean, you're the jack of all trades guy, right? So, they must have wanted you to do something for them."

Jake's eyebrows drew close together as he considered the line of questioning about those fellas from, um… he couldn't remember where they were from.

"They just wanted me to build 'em somethin." No details forthcoming… yet.

"Uh huh, and what exactly, if you don't mind my asking, did they ask you to build?" Napoleon knew this couldn't go on much longer. If Jake were truly 'in' with THRUSH, then he would surely turn on the UNCLE agent and try to take him down. Napoleon imagined Jake using the term 'whomp'; it just suited him somehow.

Nah, I don't mind none. I already told that little blond feller all about it. He had a fair amount of know how hisself, and helped me finish putting this engine together."

So that was the Russian's game, eh? Come in and take Napoleon's mission right out from under him.

"Jake, you say you talked to the, um… blond fellow. What did you tell him?" Napoleon was looking as earnest as possible while his blood roiled at the thought of being bested by the new agent.

"Why don't you just ask me, I shall be more than happy to share what I have learned here." That accent, that infuriating tone of someone who has what someone else wants.

"Mr. Kuryakin, how interesting to find you here. Did I miss a memo back at the office?" Illya Kuryakin smiled at the apparent annoyance he had become. Oh well, it was not the first time.

"Mr. Waverly sent me down here, he thought you might need some help with the, um… situation."

Jake was watching the two men, aware that he was the topic at hand but slightly amused to be causing such a hubbub. He'd have to tell his granny about this, she'd get a hoot out of it.

Napoleon looked the Russian over from top to bottom. He wasn't wearing a suit, he was dressed in jeans and a tee shirt; there was grease all over the front and the obvious tactic of blending in with the locals, as much as one could blend in when saddled with an accent like his.

"I see, and have you…?"

"Yes. We have want we need and can return to Headquarters just as soon as I finish with Jake's little project. You are most welcome to wait and, hmmm… watch." There it was again, the little half smile that hid something that Napoleon was determined to ferret out. He'd finagle a mission with the upstart and figure out all of his secrets.

And so he did. But not before Illya and Jake rebuilt the transmission and convinced Napoleon to take off his silk shirt and help them. Stripped down to a tee shirt like the other two men, it was only a matter of time before he relaxed and began to reveal a few characteristics to the cagey Russian; characteristics that would come in very handy someday.

Illya knew how to get secrets out of people too.


	11. Chapter 11: K Is For Kidding

"Kalamazoo is a real place, I assure you." Napoleon Solo sometimes wondered how his friend's mind really worked. ' _Ah, all work and no play, that's the problem_ ', was his thought concerning Kalamazoo and Kuryakin.

Illya Kuryakin had heard many strange things in his life since leaving the Soviet Union, not the least of which was the names people gave to the towns and villages in which they lived. So far he thought that England and the United States led the way with their peculiar penchant for naming villages and towns in such a way as to provoke a response, or a rebuttal.

"Kalamazoo is in Michigan, I know that Napoleon. I am well aware of what Kalamazoo is, I just find it difficult to appreciate the reasoning, or lack of it, that should have inspired people to choose it for the name of their city. The first thing that comes to my mind is a... _a kazoo_."

Napoleon resisted for a few seconds.

"Gesundheit."


	12. Chapter 12: L Is For Lover

"Liebhaber, you must come back to bed and make more kissing and making me happy. Ja?"

Napoleon knew he didn't have time to keep making Gretchen happy, he needed to get out of here and quick. Illya was trussed up like a turkey in a cell somewhere beneath this room, while the little fraulein was motioning to him and, let's face it, tempting him with a clear view of the largest breasts he'd ever held between his hands.

''My little dumpling, Gretchen ...' Napoleon sighed his regrets. Illya would kill him if he stayed for another round of ... bliss.

"I really should be going, so if you'll just tell me where you put my trousers..." Napoleon smiled, but his will power was fading as Gretchen pulled him back into the bed, his face doing a soft landing into the ample bosoms he had so recently explored.

"I vil help you get your little friend out of trouble, ja?"

"Ja? Yeah, okay... that sounds good. Soon?" He knew the answer to that as she began to assert her prowess in the art of lovemaking. Napoleon was lost in it soon enough, and after Gretchen was satisfied, she arranged for Illya's release. It was all very ... efficient. Yep, German efficiency. Illya couldn't possibly be mad at Napoleon over the very slight delay.

Gretchen bade both men farewell, her tryst with the handsome American well worth the verbal berating she would endure for having released the Russian.

And Illya, after seeing the woman, felt rather sorry for his friend for having had to try and resist her. He did not blame Napoleon for his carnal nature, not this time.


	13. Chapter 13: M Is For Maybe

"Mannequins? What an odd type of job that must have been." Heather McNabb was hearing about the strange events within the Brain Killer Affair for the first time. Much of that mission had been very protected due to Mr. Waverly's involvement. The pretty blonde was listening intently as Napoleon Solo, CEA of the Northwest region, related the entire affair, including the young woman whose living was made by repairing old mannequins.

Illya chimed in every once in a while, his own experience with that animation suspension had left him with a headache that lasted for several days.

"She seemed to be a very nice girl, quite struck on Napoleon though. I think she's been promised a night on the town." He shot a smile at his friend, then checked to see Heather's reaction to hearing about another woman claiming the prize of a night with Solo.

"Oh really? You're going to start dating this girl?" Heather didn't want to sound jealous, but darn it, she had waited for a date with Napoleon for a long time. And now this girl...

Napoleon saw it, knew he had made unspoken promises to Miss McNabb and needed to put out any fires this might cause.

"Heather, she's a poor girl whose dream is to have a glamorous night on the town with an escort..."

"Like you?" Heather had him, knew Napoleon well enough to read into the ego that shared space with his good intentions.

"Well, if you say so." His smile completely disarmed her, leaving Heather to simply acquiesce to the situation and wait for her own night on the town. Napoleon bent over so that Illya wouldn't over hear anything.

"Soon Heather. Very soon."

She sighed with contentment, her patience would be rewarded.


	14. Chapter 14: N Is For Natasha

Natural beauty was one thing, but when it was accompanied by a lethal dose of seduction and a killer's thirst for blood, this assassin was as difficult to stop as she was to resist.

Alexander Waverly had thought long and hard on the topic, his choice of men to stop this femme fatale hinged on their ability to resist her seductions and carry through with what could prove to be a very disturbing end to her.

"Mr. Kuryakin, in as much as you have a different type of training from Mr. Solo, that is to say your previous, um... employers, had a very unique ..." He was at a loss for words. Illya Kuryakin's background had produced a man capable of cruelty, and the ability to do the job without conscience. It was the Soviet method, the harsh and relentless brutality from whence young Mr. Kuryakin had been snatched away. Waverly needed someone who could revert to that mindset, especially in the case of this woman.

Illya understood what his superior was attempting to say, realized the implications of his past life as a Soviet agent, even if under the auspices of the Soviet Navy.

"Ahem, Mr… um.. Kuryakin…' The bushy eyebrows rose up nearly to his hairline as the Old Man addressed his Soviet agent.

"You are going to be the man who must bring us Natasha Petrov. She is former KGB, recruited by THRUSH into their Eastern European operations. Miss Petrov has already assassinated two high ranking officials from Western nations, casting the suspicion on the USSR by those unaware of THRUSH and their heinous pursuit of world dominion. To be sure their greatest threat is the Soviet Union, and the use of agents like Petrov are a bold move from the Hierarchy."

Illya listened intently to his boss' narrative. He dreaded encountering this woman, she reeked of the worst aspects of his homeland. He himself had been recruited by GRU, a less ominous, perhaps less murderous branch of the Soviet infrastructure. Working for UNCLE had helped him forget the constant intimidation that all agents faced when the penalty for failure was a gulag in Siberia, or worse.

"Sir,' He finally spoke up when it seemed opportune, "Do we have a current location on Miss Petrov?"

Waverly fussed with some papers before handing a report to Kuryakin.

"Here, look it over and discuss a plan with your, with ummm… Mr. Solo. I expect something by morning, your flight leaves for Vienna at seven tomorrow evening.' He paused to level a stern gaze at his men.

"Please be aware that this woman is deadly and without remorse for her actions. She is someone to fear, gentlemen, for her complete lack of morality. Be careful. That is all."

Nothing was ever easy, and this mission would not be an exception to that universal rule.

What The Heart Reaps


	15. Chapter 15: O Is For Out of this World

"Oh boy, oh boy..." Napoleon Solo sometimes reverted to that simple exclamation, more like a school boy than a suave, worldly spy.

"Did you see that Illya? I mean, oh boy..." Illya laughed out loud at his friend.

"Yes, I saw it. A man just flew, but it's a trick I assure you." Napoleon wasn't convinced, he had watched the man in a black outfit jump from a building, soar in the air and land on another rooftop. He had escaped their pursuit and left both men looking foolish for not being able to fly.

"Illya, how does someone trick himself into flying?" Napoleon was almost angry with the Russian for denying what he had just watched happen.

"Napoleon, he is obviously wearing some sort of device, a motorized contraption that gives him the ability to 'fly', if you will, for short distances. Otherwise he should have kept going until he was completely out of reach."

That made sense.

"Okay, but ... Never mind. We lost him. Now we start over and try to figure out what THRUSH is up to." Napoleon wasn't giving up, but the chase was over for today.

Meanwhile, Black Bolt made plans for his next villainous exploit.


	16. Chapter 16: P Is For Principles

"Penelope…" Napoleon smiled at the memory of a girl he once knew. Illya raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner as he put down his book and yielded to the curiosity provoked by such a wistful tone in his friend's voice.

"And who is Penelope?" He had to ask, if for no other reason to be accommodating to Napoleon's apparent desire to speak of the woman.

"Oh, well… ', he sighed at the image of a young girl dressed in a yellow dress, her dark hair hanging around her shoulders in soft curls.

"She was the Autumn Apple Blossom Queen of 1951. I was getting ready to ship out for Korea and the last thing I did was attend the Apple Festival and ask Miss Penelope Dugan out on a date with a man who might never return." Illya smiled at the obvious ploy, one played out across nations by men waiting to deploy to some foreign war.

"And did she oblige the condemned's last wish?" Napoleon laughed out loud at the memory.

"No, no she did not. Penelope had turned down more than one love struck sailor or soldier. The girl was a class act and she knew it. Her future wasn't with some grunt in the military." It had stung a little at the time, but now Napoleon could see how a young woman of that era had to look out for her future, and that usually meant marrying well.

"So, did Penelope find her man?" Illya couldn't help but be a little curious.

"She did indeed. Penelope married the son of a senator, and today is the wife of one. She did well for herself, and, to his credit, the man she married fulfilled her vision of a bright future."

Napoleon had encountered Penelope on a trip to Washington the previous week, and was surprised when she hailed him from the steps of the Capitol.

 _"Napoleon Solo? Is that really you?" Napoleon had turned at the sound of his name, and was unable to hide his surprise and pleasure when he recognized Penelope Dugan from fifteen years ago._

 _"Penelope? What are you doing on the steps of the Nation's Capitol?" It was a bemused tone in his voice, the easy cadence of his natural charm not hindered by the sight of an old, almost flame._

 _"I'm here with my husband, Senator Lambert. I don't suppose you've kept up with my life.' Her smile made Napoleon tingle just a little; she was still beautiful._

 _"And what about you? What brings you to Washington, D.C.?" Time for the cover story, something he always regretted when it concerned people from his past._

 _"I am here on business, just a few meetings. You know how it is." That was simple, not a complete lie at least._

Illya listened to the replay of Napoleon's encounter with Penelope, not daring to ask if anything else had transpired between them. Napoleon knew instinctively that his friend was thinking of the possible scenarios, all of it based on his usual proclivity to seduction and sex.

"She's a married woman, Illya. I do have a few principles you know."

"Sorry. You read my mind, did you?"

"Sometimes it's just a reflection of my own.' Napoleon sighed before continuing.

"She really is a beautiful woman, even more beautiful than when she was nineteen."

Illya considered that little confession, the lapse in a barrier they both often kept in place against the divulging of personal desires, or fears.

"And she is happy? In her marriage, did she seem happy?" Illya needed his partner to be fully present, they were going out on a mission in twenty-four hours. It wouldn't do for Solo to be dreaming of a woman he couldn't have.

"Yes, she seemed… I believe she is very happy. I saw nothing to indicate otherwise."

"Good." That made Napoleon take a closer look at the Russian.

"Why do you ask?"

"Why shouldn't I? If she is happy then you are less likely to try and seduce her. I think that is best. Do you not agree?" The challenge was to make Napoleon aware of any hesitation or emotional hindrance that might be lingering after his encounter with this woman.

"I'm fine Illya. I am just fine and dandy. Penelope is happy and I am… fine."

Illya patted his partner on the back, the only kind of solace he could offer. Napoleon was not fine, and his heart was now officially smitten with a woman from his past whose own future was a barrier to any kind of romance between them.

Napoleon would have twelve hours of flying to get over Penelope. At least that's what he and Illya were hoping would happen. Principles and morals… Napoleon wondered if it was all worth it.


	17. Chapter 17: Q Is For Quick

_"Quigly, where's that file?" The stressed out assistant was flustered at the current mood her boss was in. He was tossing things around, his eyes seemed bloodshot and, if she looked again she thought maybe he was starting to foam at the mouth. As she recoiled from the sight of it, the man began to bleed from his eyes and a piercing shriek preceded a total collapse._

 _Shelly Quigly shrieked as well as she ran from the office and out into the hallway of the big firm in which she worked. Staten, Staten and Berg was one of the largest law firms in Manhattan, and now one of the Statens was dead._

Alexander Waverly shuffled some papers on his desk in search of the pipe he had only moments before held in his hand. Blast it all, where was his secretary?

"Miss Quigly, please come in here and help me sort through these, um… papers." The summons was met with immediate action; the pneumatic doors open with a whisper and the newly acquired secretary, Marlene Quigly, hurried into the office of the head of UNCLE Northwest.

"Mr. Waverly sir, what can I do to help?" She was solicitous and came highly recommended from one of the top law firms in the city. Poor girl had been through a terrible ordeal it seemed, but she was on the spot as secretary to the Old Man.

"Yes, well… um, I seem to have misplaced…' his hands were still searching and like magic, the pipe was where it had last been seen.

"Oh, well I'll be… well, never mind. Just the same, please help me clear this desk and perhaps you can file some of these away for me." He felt strange, a little bit of a headache was coming on.

"Mr. Waverly, you look tired. Perhaps a nap or …"

"No, no naps. I don't have time for naps." He snapped at her, an uncharacteristic response to her kindness. Marlene thought back to the horrible scene with Mr. Staten, remembered how he had reacted after his morning coffee. She looked at Waverly's half full cup of tea.

"Sir, perhaps if you finish your tea you'll feel better." Her tone made him feel comforted somehow, in spite of the splitting headache.

"Yes, tea… a spot of tea…" Was he seeing double? Something was off, and the old spymaster was suddenly alert to the signs of trouble that seemed to be mounting. He touched the intercom, the direct line to Mr. Solo's office.

A buzzing sound alerted Napoleon to something he both dreaded and responded to with a swiftness borne of training and loyalty. Waverly was down, in his own office. The intercom system had been added to Waverly's arsenal of buttons after the Brain Killer Affair. The Old Man was to be as well protected as possible.

"Illya! Waverly's office, something's wrong up there."

The two men ran to Waverly's office, grabbing two other agents as they sped past them. No amount of training ever prepared them for the eventuality of Waverly's demise, and if possible they were going to prevent it at all costs. They reached the doors in record time, rushed inside to find Alexander Waverly seated, his devoted new secretary hovering over him as she tried to force tea down his throat.

"Stop what you're doing! Stand back or …" Marlene made a sudden move and Illya shot her with a sleep dart. There was no point in being generous in his estimation of the situation. She had the cup and Waverly looked stricken.

"Call for a medical team" Napoleon barked out the orders as the other agents complied. Within a few minutes Waverly was heading to Medical on a gurney, his ramblings turning to shouts and whimpers of agony.

Illya smelled the tea, his acute senses picking up the faint odor of a poison he knew from his Soviet training.

"I think we may have a serial killer on our hands, Napoleon. Her former employer died in a manner that was suspicious, and I believe Mr. Waverly would have met a similar fate had he not triggered that alarm. We made it, quite literally, in the nick of time." Illya's expression was stern, and as Marlene came back to consciousness a few hours later, her fate was virtually sealed by the stream of evidence quickly compiled against her.

Alexander Waverly recovered, but his stay in Medical lasted a few days longer than his patience for it. Napoleon handled the day to day in his absence, but when the Old Man was once again in his seat of power, UNCLE felt once again like the bastion of reason and order for which it was created.

Another round of danger and near misses would not hinder the mission of the U.N.C.L.E., or the vision of Alexander Waverly.


	18. Chapter 18: R Is For Reflect

_Reinvigorate your minds, your bodies and your spirits. Come up into the atmosphere where everything is clear._

The mantra kept repeating as the room full of devotees chanted the refrain over and over again. Illya rolled his eyes at the redundancy of it all, and the mindlessness of the people he was infiltrating.

The Russian looked the part, dressed in linen pants and a strange fitting, gauzy shirt of a thing. He hadn't quite figured it out, but all of the men wore them, while the women were covered completely in another version of the linen clothing. For some reason he felt oddly exposed in the outfit, and the women seemed to be leering at him from behind the layers of veils that they wore.

Napoleon would have loved it.

Illya had managed to sneak out of the large meeting room and was making his way down a corridor lined with statues and vegetation: marijuana plants. He had learned early on that part of the process here was to get high and then enter into the rituals and recitations. He hadn't inhaled, but the room was full of the stuff and it had been difficult to stay completely level headed. Fortunately for him, the training he had received at the hands of his Soviet masters was of some use here.

Clear headed and purposeful, the blond made his way towards the office, the inner sanctum as it was called, of the top man. Thomas Emory had changed his name to Mano Dieum, an oblique reference, however illiterate it was, to a type of diety that he was pretending to be. At first, UNCLE's information gatherers had thought it might be a THRUSH operation, but closer inspection yielded no such connection. When it was discovered that several teenagers had been kidnapped, all of whom were connected to world leaders, a plea was made to Alexander Waverly to help restore the children to their families, and to shut down the Brawan Children cult. The room Illya had left was full of people under the age of twenty, and a few who looked, as he did, to be in their mid twenties. Once again his youthfulness and his shaggy blond hair had netted him an undercover role that required him to blend in with the youth culture.

Thus far, Illya had determined the purpose of this cult was an age old one, to obtain as much money as possible for its leaders. The brainwashing was careful and successful, attested to by the voices resonating from the central meeting room. Illya wondered what kind of process would be necessary to undo the programming these kids had received after coming here. He saw the blank expressions, the drug induced haze in which most of them spent their days.

Something caught Illya's eye as he thumbed through the records in Emory's office. in several instances the victims of kidnapping were related to heads of state. If blackmail was involved, and it seemed to be, the object seemed to be clear: gain power through intimidation. If this were successful, Emory would have access to more than one nation's arsenal and treasury. These young people were being used as bait, and the payoff was global in scope.

Illya needed to alert the support team stationed outside the walls of the compound. He had enough information now to legally charge Thomas Emory with kidnapping; the details of each abduction were clearly outlined, as though a record of the deed made the accomplishment that much more satisfying.

Illya reached inside of his thin trousers and withdrew his communicator. He had sewn in a pocket from some scrap material and hidden the instrument there. One of the advantages he had here was that there were no detection devices to foil his efforts.

"Open Channel D, this is Kuryakin."

"Mister Kuryakin, do you have the necessary documents?"

"Yes sir, and I suggest that the team make an appearance immediately. Emory, or Mono Dieum as he calls himself, is preparing to move the camp to another location very soon. We don't have much time before…"

Illya didn't finish the sentence. A large man dressed in black appeared out of nowhere, or so it seemed. Illya hadn't seen or heard anything, and yet here was a man nearly twice his size and seeming intent on doing him great harm. Illya took up a defensive posture, hopeful but not overly confident.

The man in black lunged towards the smaller man, grabbing his shirt and ripping it from Illya's body. In the process he plunged a knife into the agent's side, sending Illya down on one knee as he gasped in pain. The communicator was still open and outside, sitting in a concealed place, Napoleon heard the skirmish and the sound of his partner's exclamation of surprise and pain.

"In, now! Storm the gates and don't let anyone get past you." Napoleon felt the adrenaline surge as he leapt from his position and ran in through the opening made for him by two of the other men in his command.

The corridors were empty except for two armed guards, both of whom were quickly put down with sleep darts. Napoleon had a map of the compound seared into his memory, and he knew where to find his partner. He ran, jumping over the two downed guards, and arrived to find Illya slumped against a rattan chair, blood pooling beneath his linen garb. The other man down before he knew what hit him, a single dart and its fast acting serum perfectly planted in his neck.

"Illya, how bad is it?" The Russian grunted out something and then passed out. Bad, that's how it was. Napoleon gathered him up and carried him over his shoulder, out of the compound and to a waiting car. His team were rounding up everyone, securing the office where the records were kept and trying to keep the young people calm as all hell broke lose. In the end it would end in UNCLE's favor, but in the meantime Illya needed a hospital.

Napoleon drove like a madman, but his destination was a helicopter waiting for him in a clearing about a half mile farther down the road. He got there and motioned for the pilot to start his engine, then carried Illya to the chopper and placed him on the back seat.

"Get him to a hospital and radio Waverly what his condition is. I'll get the information myself as soon as I finish up at the site. Take care of him, he's my partner." With that Napoleon slapped twice at the hull of the chopper, watching as it rose in the air and headed towards help for the wounded Russian.

Within hours the scene at the compound had gained order, all of the conspirators were rounded up and detained for the authorities. The young people who had been kidnapped or lured there with promises of spiritual enlightenment were treated first to a physical exam and then sent, one by one, back to their respective families. A few strays were given shelter until further help could be obtained.

Napoleon finally made his way to the hospital where his partner was recovering from the knife attack. Nothing vital was hit, so the loss of blood turned out to be the primary injury. Illya was already insisting that he be released as Napoleon walked through the door.

"What? You're already troubling these people? Illya, what makes you think you're getting out of here tonight?" Napoleon had to laugh at his partner, always ready to bolt from the confinement of a hospital bed.

"As it happens, I have plans." Illya looked serious, but Napoleon wasn't buying it.

"Really? What sort of plans could you possibly have. You were on assignment."

"And the assignment was nearly over. I made plans." He wasn't budging from the story.

"With whom?" Napoleon wasn't going to just let it go. Illya sighed and leaned back against the pillow. He was suddenly tired, and as the color drained slightly from his face, Napoleon understood that the fight was going out of his friend.

"With what, actually. I have been eating nothing but vegetables for a week. I need a steak, or a roasted chicken. Anything that isn't orange or green." That was a legitimate reason for leaving the hospital. They weren't in New York, but Napoleon was pretty sure he could find a good steak dinner somewhere close by. After all, they were in Texas.

Illya, if you'll just rest, I'm going to go find you the best steak in Amarillo. Deal?"

Illya nodded, a smile beginning to break across his face.

"Deal. Oh, and don't forget the salad, with bleu cheese dressing."

"I thought you were tired of eating vegetables." Napoleon wanted to make sure he got this right, and a salad seemed… wrong.

"Oh, well I am. But somehow eating a steak without a salad is just… well, just make sure you add the salad. Please." The smile was enough to convince Napoleon that Illya did indeed want a salad with his steak.

"Okay. Steak and salad. And a baked potato, right?"

"Right. Lots of butter. And some dessert too, maybe chocolate cake." That did it.

"Just get up and get dressed Illya. I'm not going to try and bring all of this back here for you to eat. Just, just… get dressed. I'll be waiting outside. Here's the change of clothes. Crazy Russian…"

Napoleon walked away mumbling beneath his breath, but inside he was glad that Illya felt good enough to go out for a meal. Sometimes a close call was just too close for comfort. This time was another close call, but it hadn't been the one that could end everything.

Dinner was definitely on him tonight.


	19. Chapter 19: S Is For Solo

"Shiloh Jones is a dangerous adversary, gentlemen. Please, do not let her gender fool you into believing otherwise, should you happen to encounter her in the course of a mission. THRUSH let her go several years ago, and that's when she became an independent agent, available to the highest bidder."

Napoleon smiled with a condescending curl at the corner of his mouth. He had heard this type of thing before from men like Rodney Jameson. Men who hadn't been in the field and who only taught about the enemy without having ever confronted him. Or her.

"She was most recently observed acting as the courier for a Chinese warlord named..."

"Excuse me, um... Mr. Jameson." Napoleon Solo was a smart ass, something everyone on Survival Island knew and accepted. They also knew this would not end well... for Rodney Jameson.

"Yes, mister... uh..." Jameson moved out from behind the podium. He walked with a limp and leaned heavily on the cane that was hanging on the back of a nearby chair. Holding onto the edge of the podium, he looked at Napoleon with an air of slight exasperation.

"Solo. Napoleon Solo." The younger man said it slowly. He wanted Jameson to remember him when he got back to New York.

"Yes Mr. Solo?" Napoleon caught some snickers from the row behind him. He enjoyed putting these actors in their places.

"Well, sir... that is, Mr. Jameson... ' It was all Napoleon could do to not bust out laughing.

"Just how is that you know how dangerous this Shiloh woman actually is? Have you had a personal encounter with her? You know, like... hand to hand combat?" Impertinent was a word that would be associated with the name Napoleon Solo for a very long time.

Jameson smiled now, he'd heard about Solo from Mr. Cutter. The young man was capable and talented, but he didn't know as much as he thought he knew.

"Actually, I have met her on more than one occasion." That surprised Napoleon, but it didn't stop him from continuing on with his little performance. He enjoyed keeping everyone entertained.

"Really? I hadn't heard you were a field agent. How did you do against Shiloh? Any stories you can give us to help us if we ever run into her? In the field, that is.''

A young man named Gilbert Torrance was sitting next to Napoleon and, as he perused a little more of the outline for this particular presentation, he noticed a footnote about Rodney Jameson that he was pretty sure Solo hadn't bothered to read.

"Psst... Solo, you better..." Napoleon ignored Torrance and waited for Jameson to respond.

Rodney Jameson looked at Napoleon and then out over the candidates who were all hoping to survive, literally, Survival School. Their faces were solemn, for the most part, and Jameson knew some of them would make it to Agent II status, serve well in some instances, die in the service of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.

Others, like Solo, would rise to the top in spite of himself. He had all of the traits necessary to go into the field and succeed, his military record indicated it and his performance on the Island gave everyone involved a peek into the future of UNCLE, with men like Napoleon Solo leading the way.

"Mr. Solo, are you familiar with the Gatner Gambit Affair? It is on the recommended reading list that you received at the onset of your training." Jameson looked again at the twenty-three faces and could tell who had read that file and who, Mr. Solo among them, had not.

"Well, should you get around to it, you will follow the trail of an assassin who was hired to kill the Prime Minister of England. She led several UNCLE agents on a merry chase across Europe as she evaded and disappeared a dozen or more times. Interpol, UNCLE and MI5 all had turns at losing Shiloh, until finally we... yes, I was there Mr. Solo.' The room was very quiet at this point, with furtive glances directed at Napoleon registering in his peripheral vision.

"We cornered her, or so we thought, in a pub just on the edge of London's Saville Row. She was making her way towards a prestigious establishment where the PM was scheduled to be. I was among the agents who had her in our sights, and just as she emerged from the building two of our men came into view and ordered her to surrender."

The room was still, a sense of anticipation creating a type of electricity that could only be generated by the truth, and the eye witness who lived it.

"Shiloh had an accomplice, another woman whose presence in the pub had garnered no thought whatsoever. Just as our team were closing in on our objective, this other woman, a blonde dressed in black, threw a smoke bomb into the street, hiding both of them from sight. Two shots were fired into the smoke, and one return shot from within. Our men missed, but that single shot struck me, the proof of which is in the limp with which I now walk."

Napoleon swallowed hard, felt a few drops of sweat fall down the side of his face. He had misjudged a man, a hero. Now that he looked more closely, Jameson was probably only a few years older than he was.

"Mr. Jameson, please, I... Please accept my apology for, um... for being disrespectful. You were a hero on that day, in spite of losing Shiloh."

That made Jameson laugh, something that unnerved Napoleon slightly. Was he laughing at his apology?

"Mr. Solo, I accept your apology, but we didn't lose Shiloh. We caught her and handed her over to the British Intelligence community. Remember, she was a hired hand, so when MI5 recruited her for their own service, she gladly accepted a deal. The other woman, however, was never apprehended. She was younger than Shiloh, probably a teenager who was in need of a guiding hand and only too willing to apprentice with someone like Shiloh Jones. I have heard that the other woman has since been enticed to join THRUSH. Some of you may run into her in the future."

There was a murmur of conversation now in the room, and Napoleon was less embarrassed than he might have thought a few minutes before. His curiosity wasn't completely satisfied however.

"So, Mr. Jameson, where is Shiloh now? Why did you warn us about her if she's basically on the same side.?"

Yes, Solo was definitely going to rise to the top.

"Did I say she'd kill you? No, only that she is a dangerous adversary, and that you should be aware. If you happen to run into her she will be working for the British, but she won't tolerate interference from any other agency in pursuit of her target. Shiloh Jones is Double O agent, as in 007. We don't know what her number is, but be sure she has one."

Now Napoleon was very curious as to this woman's current state of employment. He'd heard of the 00 agents, but this was fascinating. And what about the other woman, the blonde? Now that would be interesting if he should run into her after he became an agent.

And make no mistake, Napoleon Solo was going to be a Section II agent for the U.N.C.L.E.


	20. Chapter 20: T Is For Turning

_Torrential rains are expected today, with the possibility of severe winds developing in the afternoon._

Napoleon Solo was at the wheel of a blue convertible as he drove through the downpour. The rag top was torn where a knife had slashed through it in search of one of the occupants. Illya Kuryakin had been at the receiving end of that plunging weapon, and was holding onto consciousness as he slumped in the passenger seat.

"Hang on Illya, I'm going as fast as this little MG will take us." He shifted again, hoping to gain more speed from the car.

"It is unfortunate… _coughing_ … to have damaged the top." He coughed some more, wincing at the pain it caused him.

"Don't talk Illya, just hang on."

Illya did hang on, as always, and was treated for the blood loss and sewn up where the knife had sliced into his back. It had missed his spine (the assailant's target), finding instead the deltoid muscle of his right shoulder. It would cause some limitations of movement for several weeks, but since the Russian was almost fully ambidextrous, he would not be severely handicapped.

Sitting in the waiting room of the hospital, Napoleon watched as patients were wheeled into the ER; the nurses and doctors crisscrossing the room as they ministered to the sick.

How many times had he been here? How many times had he waited while Illya was stitched up or lay fighting back the darkness of death? How many times had he himself been the victim of some life threatening event, leaving his partner to watch and wait?

How many times more would this scene repeat itself?

This life was one of commitment and denial. Commitment to the cause, and denial that each day might be his last.

 _"I defy death to take me or my partner. Not today, not any day."_

"I'm sorry sir, did you say something?" The nurse had approached without Solo's being aware of her.

"What? No, I… well, no. Is my friend..?" She saw the concern and spoke before he could finish asking.

"He's fine, and he wants to talk to you. Seems we can't get him to admit he's actually hurt. How on earth…?" She didn't complete the question, something told her these men dealt with issues that she was better off not knowing about.

"He's in here, follow me."

Napoleon gathered up his partner an hour later and arranged for them to catch a flight back to New York. They'd be back home by morning, not much worse for wear. Illya would sleep all the way and Napoleon would pretend to enjoy flirting with the stewardess. In truth, his heart just wasn't in it.

To be honest, he wasn't sure where his heart was tonight. It for certain wasn't with the U.N.C.L.E.


	21. Chapter 21: U Is For Ugh

"Unilateral disarmament is not an answer, it is a pathway to oblivion!"

The speaker was passionately decrying a familiar discussion on the possibility of nuclear disarmament on the part of the United States. It was a pipe dream by his estimation, a sure way to the demise of the US as a world power.

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were in the audience, placed discreetly near the front for protection, should someone object to the oration of Senator William Kinser.

"He makes a point you know. The Soviet Union would latch onto something like unilateral disarmament and immediately increase its own military strength around the globe." Illya knew first hand how his countrymen would respond. He wasn't necessarily impressed with the Senator's views overall, but on this one point he found agreement with his own opinions.

Napoleon sighed in resignation. He knew it was true, but the dream of a world unencumbered by militarism and nuclear threat was one he shared with countless others. His stint in Korea had shown him the worst of war, and the current situation in Vietnam was leading to an increasing awareness of the military industrial complex that Eisenhower had warned would overtake the country if left unchecked.

The audience was generally in agreement with Senator Kinser, but scattered throughout were dissidents whose credentials included campus bombings and attacks on military recruitment centers. The motives were unclear, but in any case, UNCLE had been asked to help rein in the individuals should their intentions appear to be violent in nature.

"Look, over there.' Illya was pointing to a young man in a hooded sweatshirt, not a common sight among the crowd in this auditorium. He had on glasses that appeared to be for distance vision, but it was impossible to know for sure from where the two agents were seated.

"I'll go check it out. Something about his demeanor seems a little off." Illya rose from his seat and walked up the aisle to the door at the top, cut through the foyer and around so that he could move in close to the individual in question. Once he was within a few feet of the man Illya saw that he was holding a package; he seemed nervous and kept moving his fingers while avoiding touching whatever was in the brown bag on his lap.

Illya's communicator was open inside his jacket breast pocket, allowing him to speak to Napoleon.

"He has something, it looks a little suspicious. I don't think we should give him an opportunity to do whatever might be his objective here."

Kinser was still talking, but the intensity had lessened. Napoleon took the opportunity to head around to the backstage area, something that was possible with the auditorium's design; steps on either side allowed for access without disrupting the speaker or performance onstage.

Once behind the curtain, Napoleon asked Illya if the suspect was still fiddling with the bag.

"He seems to be waiting for something, perhaps a signal. I think this is our man, Napoleon. What are you going to do?"

Illya didn't have to wait for a reply. Napoleon came from behind the curtain like an emcee might, clasping the senator's hand and thanking him for the excellent talk on such an important subject. The senator looks slightly annoyed at first, but being aware of UNCLE's presence, as well as Secret Service, he yielded to the agent's ruse and thanked his audience before being led offstage by Solo.

Illya watched his man the entire time, noted the look of exasperation as the senator left the stage and then the hesitation before getting up to leave. As if it were not in the plan but a split second decision, he set the bag on the seat as he turned to go.

Illya had to make a choice between grabbing the package and running like a mad man through the crowd, or yelling FIRE at the top of his lungs and hoping the room cleared before a bomb went off. He opted to grab the bag, it would probably be the best and fasted way to make certain the crowd was safe.

Illya swiftly took possession of the bag and then turned back towards a street level exit that should lead to an alley. He hoped there would be large trash receptacles there, the industrial type that could be attached to the city garbage trucks. If something exploded inside one of those the damage should be minimal.

With the speed of man running for his life, Illya bounded out of the auditorium and spotted the big trash bin he had hoped would be there. As quickly as he could, he was throwing the bomb inside and running away from it when the thing went off. It was more of a thud than an explosion, emitting a cloud of something that smelled of putrid excrement of some sort.

"Chyort!" Illya swore at the thing, realizing that he had been caught in the cloud of stink as it swirled around the alley. It was better than being blown up, but something told him his partner would never let him live it down.

A stink bomb. Again.

Remember the Super Colossal Affair?


	22. Chapter 22: V Is For Vitameatavegamin

**_…Vitameatavegamen, and you'll be healthy too!_**

Napoleon could hear the television from out in the hall. _I Love Lucy?_ Even Napoleon Solo knew Lucille Ball and her crazy antics on the televisiNon show from the 50's. But Illya?

He knocked on the door and noted the sudden silence within. Illya had been laughing out loud at the comedy, and now Napoleon felt a little guilty for interrupting such obvious enjoyment. He wondered how often the Russian guffawed like he'd just heard him doing from inside the apartment.

When Illya opened the door he was not laughing anymore, and the television was turned off.

"Napoleon, what brings you here tonight? Are we being sent away again into the night?" He was trying to maintain an appearance of cool reserve, but Napoleon recognized something slightly off. He wondered what would happen if he …

"Vitameatavegamin!" Illya looked shocked, and then his face erupted into a smile that was followed by a shriek of laughter. Nope, he wasn't done with it, and like anyone else struck by a laugh attack, Illya was on the edge, just willing himself to not break into a laughing fit.

"I don't know what… _coughing back a laugh_ … to what you are referringggg… " And then he was done for. Illya laughed until his sides hurt, and the sight of it made Napoleon succumb to that clever trick that draws other people into someone's hysterics.

"We do not have such humor in Russia, no one is funny in the Soviet Union." Napoleon's quip brought on more laughter.

"I don't know, Kruschev is sort of a clown." That made Illya stop momentarily until he remembered the great man thumping the podium with his shoe, and he laughed even harder.

The two of them stood in the door way howling with laughter until tears streamed down their faces and they were leaning on each other for support. The two top agents in the U.N.C.L.E., toppled by Lucy.

A few of the neighbors heard the laughter, but most of them were likewise occupied as they watched the show that had torn apart at least one iron curtain.


	23. Chapter 23: W Is For Wow

**Wake Up!**

Illya Kuryakin bolted out of his bed, unconcerned at being naked, and ran into the hallway that led into the living room of his apartment.

"Chyort...' mumbling beneath his breath the blond ran one hand through his hair and tried to recall what he had been dreaming. The ruminations were interrupted by the sight of someone slumped across his sofa. Not someone.

A body. A woman's body, with a large red stain on her chest.

Illya couldn't move for fear of disturbing the person...no, the body... that occupied his sofa. He tried to remember why she was there, but everything came up...

Empty. His memory was empty, and not even the details of the previous day were coming to him now. Had he gone into Headquarters? Did he have dinner with Napoleon or...

Last night he had gone on a date with ... He tried to remember her name.

Laura. Her name was Laura Bentley.

Her name. She was Laura Bentley. At least that had been what she told him when they met at the bakery earlier in the day.

Why had he asked her on a date? He never did that. Something was wrong, the details were wrong.

Illya opened the desk drawer and pulled out his communicator, hidden inside a false panel to keep other people from snatching it. On this day he was glad to have gone to the trouble. Perhaps he had instinctively put it away, had anticipated trouble.

This qualified as trouble, and as he opened the silver instrument to hail his partner, the body moved.

Illya stood and stared as Laura regained consciousness. She pushed herself into an upright position, looked around at the strange surroundings and finally at the naked man standing at the end of the sofa.

Illya finally acknowledged to himself that he was completely undressed and grabbed the nearest object large enough to cover himself, or at least his most sensitive parts. That made Laura smile, and she might have reached over to remove the obstruction had she not then looked down and spotted the big stain on the front of her dress.

"Well, isn't that just swell,' And then as an after thought...

"Out, damn spot!"

Laura looked up then, smiling at the blond she was beginning to remember through a haze of red wine, sinfully large amounts of caviar and sour cream on delicate potato pastries, and the delicious Russian who had plied her with those delights.

"Um, do you think it might be a good idea for you to put on some clothes? I mean, I am absolutely willin' to play with you like that, but it doesn't seem terribly lady like and, best I can recall, I am still a lady." The lilt of a Southern accent was a delicate contrast to the room and the two people in it.

Illya blushed down to his, um... well, he nodded his head as he backed out of the room and into his bedroom. Throwing on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt, it was all he could do to try and remember how this woman had gotten him to abandon so many protocols of behavior regarding dating strange women. This was a Napoleon move, something that was going to cause considerable distress when it was all over.

Illya returned to the living room in slightly better condition than he had left, but Laura was fretting over her ruined dress; it was silk, and the wine stain was not likely to come out of it.

The two stopped and examined each other carefully, neither of them completely confident about the previous night. Laura's recollections seemed a little clearer, but she wasn't absolutely positive just how far things had gone with this tantalizing man. He was... exotic. Her Southern upbringing had never told her about someone like Illya Kuryakin.

A Russian. Good Lord, a Russian. And a good looking Russian who...

She caught her breath as she remembered a passionate exchange on the sofa where she had awakened to the sight of him in the altogether.

"Illya?"

He knew what was coming and there was nothing in his head to help out. Elsewhere in his body, there was a clue emerging.

"Yes... Laura. I... my memory is a bit clouded, perhaps from all of the wine." He looked around now and saw two bottles on the kitchen table and another one on the floor by the sofa. All of them were empty with only the two glasses to indicate there had been a semblance of civility. _Bohze moi..._

"Illya...' Now Laura was beginning to fight through the wine colored veil that separated this morning from whatever had happened the previous night. She was no prude, the 60's had cured almost everyone of that malady. But she didn't usually jump into bed, or a sofa, with naked Russians of such recent acquaintance. Actually, there were no other naked Russians. Just this one.

And that thought prompted her to reach out towards the man who was now walking towards her, closing the distance until...

A little later, the pair were in a more comfortable setting as they lay entwined on Illya's bed, in the afterglow of a morning spent enjoying each other's company, to put it delicately. Laura was languid from the lovemaking, but in the most satisfying way possible, and Illya had a new appreciation for the phrase Southern Hospitality.

It was a place he looked forward to visiting again, and again...


	24. Chapter 24: X Is For Xylotomous

"Xaviar darling, could you come over here for a minute?"

April Dancer was playing the part so well that she almost forgot that the man named Xaviar Lorenz was a THRUSH agent who would gladly have killed her if her UNCLE identity should be revealed. She was attracted to the handsome owner of the villa they were in, and if she weren't careful it was going to be a rocky ride for the agent.

"My beautiful girl, I am only too willing to do whatever you ask. I only hope that soon you will ask of me what I desire the most." The sultry tone of his voice almost persuaded April to do just that, but she couldn't give in to those urges. Her sexual desires were not so different from his, but the mission had to be first in her mind and intentions.

"Oh darling, you know my ideal is to be a virginal bride to the man I love and adore. You wouldn't deprive me of that would you?" Xaviar smiled and slid his arm around her slim waist, drawing her closer until his lips brushed against hers. She was dizzy from the contact, desirous of more from this man. No one since Illya had made her feel like this and she was in danger of losing her way.

THRUSH had commissioned Lorenz to infiltrate an Italian cheese producer; the famed parmesan of which the nation was so proud. The plot was ridiculous, but THRUSH was no stranger to the absurd. They intended to infuse the cheese with a drug that would gradually produce a reduced sense of security, a type of paranoia. Eventually the Hierarchy intended to utilize it to make a political move on Italy, and the cheese was their secret weapon. It was very THRUSH in nature, and Xaviar had been in place for over two years, slowly gaining access to the cheese making process and his opportunity to fulfill the mission of poisoning Italy's cheese.

April Dancer was the third UNCLE agent sent in to try and stop this culinary crime. The two previous agents were men, and had gained nothing for their efforts. But sending in UNCLE's only female agent was a coup for Alexander Waverly, and another opportunity to prove to the other Section I members that women in the role of enforcement agents were necessary for UNCLE's future.

As April fended off the advances of her prey, she reasserted her intentions to end his mission in Italy. She had everything she needed to expose him to the owners of the company he was attempting to ruin, and no amount of sexual tension was going to keep her from accomplishing what she'd been assigned to do here.

"Xaviar darling, can we take a drive up to Milan? I'm having withdrawals from this shopping hiatus." Her smile was enough to convince him to leave the compound and take a chance that she might still give in to his romantic overtures. It was worth leaving the safety of his villa in order to capture the heart of this woman.

"We shall do whatever makes you happy, my love. We can spend the weekend there if you like, dining out and shopping until we have nothing left. Does that make you happy, April?" She would have been lying to tell him otherwise, even though she knew that agents would be waiting there to take him into custody after his plot to poison the cheese was exposed to the family who owned the company. It was a betrayal they were not likely to forgive.

"It makes me very happy darling. How soon can we leave?" She felt wooden inside, like a piece of wood had replaced her soul.

In less than an hour the two were heading towards Milan, one of them relieved to be nearing the end of this temptation to an empty affair, the other anticipating its beginning.

In the end, Xaviar was taken by surprise, never knowing that April had been involved. He took comfort in the memory of what almost was, while she headed back to New York with a hole in her heart.

xylotomous

1. **Definition** : capable of cutting or boring into wood


	25. Chapter 25: Y Is For Yearning

**Yes, yes, yes…!**

Illya and Napoleon heard the exclamations and immediately jumped to a unified conclusion as they approached the apartment of Mark Slate.

"You first, you're most experienced with odd sexual situations." Illya smirked at his own comment.

"Very funny. This seems very unlike Mark. I mean, it's so…"

"Really Napoleon? You've not had women screaming at the top of their lungs during… whatever is going on in there? tsk tsk…" Illya clucked his tongue in a mocking manner, mostly to annoy his partner rather than actually make a point.

Napoleon knocked on the door with a good amount of sound, so as to get past what was going on inside. He didn't intend to give Mark the benefit of privacy, not since he had missed checking into London HQ this morning. If it was all about a woman…

The door opened to reveal a girl dressed in a short skirt, sweater and boots. GoGo Boots, a product of the Swinging 60's new dress code. London was swinging on that ethereal pendulum.

"Who are you?" The accent was cultured, if a bit immature. The girl looked to be about thirteen or fourteen… teenager age. Neither man was an expert in the matter.

Napoleon smiled at the girl, hoping to see past her into Mark's apartment.

"I am Napoleon Solo, a friend of Mark's. Is he here?" The girl looked past Napoleon and settled in on Illya. He was cute, and she was a girl who liked cute boys.

"My uncle Mark isn't feeling well, my mum's gone to get him something for it. Who are you?" She was looking at Illya, attempting to lure him into conversation.

"My name is Illya. May we come in and check on Mark?" She gauged their faces and body language without being aware of the importance of the latter. It was pure instinct, but she thought they seemed all right.

She opened the door a little wider to reveal a game board on the coffee table. That was the source of the noise earlier. Napoleon and Illya both apologized silently for what they had mistakenly thought was Mark and a woman in the throes of lovemaking.

"Mark? Is he in the bedroom?" Both men headed back to where they figured to find their friend, and he was indeed there. He was listless, probably dehydrated.

"Mark, what happened to you?" Napoleon was immediately concerned, thinking perhaps that Mark was a victim of a THRUSH attack. Illya was on the communicator to London HQ requesting medical help at Mark's apartment.

"Medical is on the way. Mark…' Illya bent down closer to get a look at Mark. He found it then, a small prick in Slate's neck.

"See this? He's been nicked by something, probably didn't even know it happened. The lab will need to analyze his blood and determine what this is." Napoleon nodded, his concern for the agent that of a man for his friend as well as co-worker.

Illya looked back into the living room where the girl was watching them through the open door. He walked back towards her, intending to find out how she and her mother had come to be here.

"You didn't tell us your name." He smiled at her, causing her heart to melt into a puddle. It almost impeded her ability to answer him.

"My… sigh… my name is Abigail. Uncle Mark called mum and asked her to get him something from the drugstore. He was sick. Is he still sick?" Uncle Mark was her favorite relative, and it suddenly occurred to her that he might actually be quite ill. Illya recognized the thought as it registered on her face.

"I'm sure your uncle will be fine, we've called for doctors to come and take a look. Where we work there is a very good hospital, and they're going to check him out. How long has your mum been gone?"

Now it hit Abigail that she had been waiting a good long while. The thought of something happening to her mother caused a lump in her throat. What was this really all about?

"Is she going to be in trouble? I don't know why it should take her so long to go for medicine." Abigail's eyes filled with tears, her instincts now telling her that something might be wrong, more than just Uncle Mark being ill.

Illya knelt down in front of her and put one hand on her shoulder.

"Abilgail, we won't let anything happen to you, or your uncle, or your mother. Okay?" She nodded her head and wrapped her arms around Illya's neck.. She was just a scared little girl now, and Illya's heart melted a little at the sound of her crying into his shoulder.

It was then that the door opened and Mark's sister Evelyn entered to find her daughter crying with her arms around a strange man.

"Abigail! Who are you? What are you doing here… with my daughter?" Illya stood up and stepped back slightly. Napoleon heard the exclamation and came into the room just as two medics from HQ entered the apartment with a gurney in tow.

Evelyn Slate Worthy stepped out of the way to let the medics pass, relieved that this was someone who knew Mark and not some random person.

"My apologies, you must be friends of Mark's. I didn't quite know what to think when I saw you…" She was looking at Illya, struck by the same wash of infatuation that had captured her daughter. Illya extended his hand to make introductions.

" I am Illya Kuryakin, and this is Napoleon Solo. We work with Mark, and as he had missed a meeting this morning were sent to fetch him. We have medical personnel here from our offices to treat him for this … He's in good hands." Evelyn and Abigail were enchanted by the blond, something that made Napoleon wince slightly as he always did when overlooked in favor of his partner.

"Well, thank you for looking out for Mark. He called in such terrible shape, but he didn't want to go to hospital. I went to the pharmacy to try and figure out something that might help. You had obviously done the best here, I… well, again, thank you." She loved her brother, and had guessed that he was somehow employed in a government sort of job. It was all very hush-hush, but obviously these two men were also in the same sort of business.

Napoleon and Illya took their leave of Evelyn and Abigail, promising to give them an update as soon as Mark had been treated for this mystery ailment. Evelyn, who had been widowed two years earlier when her husband died in a car crash, watched the two men leave and wondered, just briefly, if Illya Kuryakin were single.

Mark was treated for a THRUSH drug, easily identified from among the many samples kept in the labs of all UNCLE facilities. Obviously, a THRUSH who was familiar with Mark had seen him and managed to get the drug into his system by way of a dart or some other small appliance. It would be hours later before Mark regained his memory of a young woman who had asked for directions to Saville Row. She was American, and he had been surprised when, after pointing her in the right direction, she reached up and pulled his face own to kiss him on the cheek. That had been the point of contact.

Napoleon and Illya spent part of the day trying to figure out who the woman might be, and why she had targeted Mark. Evelyn spent the rest of the day wondering about Illya.


	26. Chapter 26: Z Is For Zugzwang

"Zeus, Apollo... heel!" The commands were given to the obedient dogs who immediately complied. The two Dobermans were beautiful specimens of the breed; well behaved and menacing looking to those who were unaware of the gentle demeanors when not on duty.

Jonathan Quayle Higgins III stood in the doorway of his London home as he gave out the command that would remain with him for all of his life. Service to the Crown was his life's work, first in the Queen's Own West Yorkshire Regiment during World War II, and now with MI6. The Doberman's were his reward at the end of the day, their obedience an omen to life in the afterglow of a nation's need for security and, as he knew now in this position, intelligence.

Higgins was expecting company this evening. Two agents from the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, UNCLE. It was a ridiculous acronym for an organization that purported to be of global importance. Add to that, one of the agents was a Soviet. He would reserve judgement, but he was dubious about this great venture with Alexander Waverly at the helm. Higgins was born a sceptic.

At precisely six o'clock the doorbell rang, prompting the dogs to bark at the intrusion into their peaceful environment. Higgins shushed them with another command and opened the door to a pair of men he imagined would be drummed out of his former military regiment.

"Mr. Higgins?' A nod preceded introductions.

"I am Napoleon Solo, from the U.N.C.L.E., and this is my associate, Illya Kuryakin." Illya nodded now, thought he saw a sign he recognized as the beginning of disapproval from the Englishman.

"Please, come in... gentlemen. Zeus, Apollo..." Higgins merely pointed at the living room and the two dogs ran ahead of the three men and took their places in front of the fireplace.

The house was immaculate, designed in the eighteenth century for some wealthy family whose primary residence was elsewhere but who required a home in London for certain seasons and occasions.

Higgins had decorated the rooms with a designer's eye to detail. Napoleon made a mental note to not touch anything unless directed to do so.

Illya was watching the dogs, his irrational fear (although he loathed to use that word), made him choose a seat farthest from the two Dobermans. They watched him intently, sensing as animals will do, that he was a perfect foil for a game of hide and seek.

Higgins took a position between the dogs, resting an elbow on the mantlepiece, which he had lowered in order to accommodate this particular pose. He held a pipe, in the other hand, which served only to remind the two men watching him of their superior back in New York.

"How is that I may assist you, gentlemen? I am at your service." The line was delivered with slightly less enthusiasm than they would have hoped for. Obviously Higgins was not pleased to be sharing space with another agency. MI6 could be that way, and there were several within that group who were doubly suspicious of Kuryakin. The Profumo scandal had made things awkward for the Russian, and had been one reason he welcomed the transfer to New York.

"Mr. Higgins, first of all we must thank you for meeting with us. MI6 has verified our information concerning this affair, and we are here to coordinate with you as we take down the operation being run by Victor Marten. We were first alerted when one of our agents was targeted by a THRUSH operative name Valerie Higgins." Napoleon waited for a response of some sort, any sign of recognition from the austere Englishman.

Higgins finally spoke:

"Valerie is my American cousin. Her mother is my father's sister; she married an American soldier during the war and returned to the states with him afterwards. Their daughter, Valerie, is their eldest child. I had heard through various sources that she was working for THRUSH, I am very sorry to have it confirmed." Higgins expression never changed although the vocal clues indicated some very real emotions regarding this story.

Napoleon looked at Illya and continued.

"Do you have any idea where we might find her? It is possible that she is not in so deep that we can't somehow reach her, convince her to leave THRUSH. We are willing to try. Can you help us?"

So that was the reason for this meeting. It was not to call on Higgins' superior skills or take advantage of his contacts in government and elsewhere. No, it was merely to utilize his relationship with the naughty American girl who shared his lineage.

"I believe she keeps a flat in London, I can give you that address. There is also the family estate where her mother still maintains a household. If she thinks no one knows who she is, she could be in either of these places." There, it was all he had for them. Higgins felt slightly ashamed to share a name with someone who had taken this disreputable turn.

Illya and Napoleon stood to leave, having taken down the addresses given to them. Higgins suddenly felt deflated, his honor somehow tied to this girl whom he had never met. She was twenty years his junior, another generation not acquainted with the hardships of war or the reality of an organization like THRUSH. Whatever had drawn her into this mess, he felt a responsibility to help get her out of it.

"Gentlemen, may I join you in your search. Valerie is my cousin, and I do feel as though I should do whatever I can to help her. I do not believe she is fully cognizant of the nature of her actions."

Napoleon recognized the emotion here, the genuine angst of dealing with family issues. But, she had physically accosted Mark when she gave him that shot of drugs that put him down. She had to get close enough for it, which was purposeful. There had to be motive behind her actions to some degree.

"Mr. Higgins, we welcome your presence. However, we will take Valerie in for questioning; we have no other choice in that. We will do everything in our power to make sure she isn't hurt in any way."

"Thank you for that. I am confident that we will find a reason for her actions that will satisfy our curiosity concerning her."

Napoleon shook hands with him, as did Illya, and promised to be in touch before making any move on the girl. Higgins would call his aunt and make some inquiries. The youngest sister of his father, she was only ten years older than he, although distant for many years. Higgins was regretting having let go of his family in order to pursue his career.

Some hours later, the three men arrived at the flat belonging to Valerie Higgins. They saw no signs of THRUSH in the area, felt none of the instinctive warning signs when danger was near. Higgins had brought Zeus and Apollo along, his companions on most of his jaunts about town. For something like this, he knew the lads would come to his rescue if needed, and he meant to stay in once piece if at all possible.

Napoleon knocked on the door and waited. There was a scuffling noise within, and it sounded like more than one person. Napoleon backed up and kicked in the door, allowing all three men to rush into the room. Two men held guns that were aimed at the UNCLE agents and Higgins. One of them also had an arm around the neck of Valerie Higgins as she struggled to get free.

"Stop it or I'll shoot your cousin. Better yet, I'll just kill all of you and be done with it." The voice was brusque, a northern accent if Higgins' judgement was correct (and it generally was). He felt almost relieved to see Valerie in danger, almost as though it meant she wasn't guilty of all he had imagined.

"Valerie, what has happened here?', then he directed his attention to the gunman who held her.

"What do you want? I assure you that the weight of Her Majesty's government is about to fall all around you with great damage to you and your organization." It was bold and mostly correct, although Napoleon and Illya could only hope it didn't prompt quicker action than they were prepared for. Illya had an explosive device in his suit jacket, a small bit of faux peppermint that was reserved for situations just like this. It would make a small explosion, allowing them to get the drop on the THRUSH gunmen. Or at least that would be the idea of it.

Napoleon smiled before speaking:

"Perhaps you misinterpret our visit here, we merely came to fetch Miss Higgins. What business do you have with her?" He was stalling for time, he knew Illya was moving slowly to avoid detection.

"Miss 'iggins 'ere stole sumtin' from THRUSH and we've come to retrieve it. Ain't that right Ginger?" The smile lacked a tooth, which seemed of no concern to the other fellow, named for the color of his hair.

"Righto matey. We won't mind doin' away wit you fellers as well. Ain't that right, Jocko?"

Higgins had had enough of their silly banter. He yelled out through the open door 'Zeus, Apollo… attack!' to the Dobermans, who came bounding in and jumped upon the THRUSH goons before they had time to realize what was happening. Valerie fell into Napoleon's arms like a damsel in distress, which in actuality she was.

Illya and Higgins dove in after the dogs and disarmed the two assailants while Napoleon held onto Valerie. In spite of her actions, he thought her to be very pretty and possibly not at all a villainess. He would do whatever necessary to find out the truth.

Once satisfied that the danger was past, Zeus and Apollo sat patiently and waited for Higgins to reward him with thanks and a couple of nuggets of something they knew were kept in his left hand trouser pocket. All in all, they were very satisfied with a day's work and work's reward.

Now it was time to find out what in deuce had been going on with his cousin. Higgins took charge of the interrogation, on the spot.

"Valerie, we have never met and I regret that now. Perhaps I could have dissuaded you from ever getting involved with the likes of THRUSH." He was sincere, and she burst into tears at the hint of kindness in his voice.

"Oh Jonathan, I know THRUSH is evil. I didn't mean to ever be in cahoots with them, but they told me that they would kill mother and you if I didn't do what they wanted. I only injected Mark with that drug so that someone would pay attention and come after me." Illya was impressed at her ingenuity while Napoleon wondered that she knew Mark's name. Higgins was just relieved that his cousin was turning out to be an innocent rather than a criminal.

"How do you know Mark Slate? He said he didn't recognize you." Valerie blushed slightly at the question.

"I have seen him here and there, and once THRUSH told me where UNCLE HQ is located, I watched for agents to see who I might contact. I learned Mark's name after he had been in a pub and the owner called him by name. I'm sorry if he was very sick, but I didn't know what else to do. THRUSH found out that I stole the drug and then they were very threatening about …" And she burst into tears, the thought of losing her mother and a cousin she'd never met had been an emotional bombshell for her to endure.

Napoleon let her lean into him as she tried to recover from the outburst. Higgins and Illya both observed the other man's obvious inclination to keep her close and the reciprocal body posture from Valerie.

"Well then, that is a better resolution than I had hoped for. Valerie, I spoke with your mother and she is fine, and UNCLE agents are with her now. We have a handle on things and will make certain you and she are safe." As Higgins spoke, the girl looked up at Napoleon with tears still in her bright blue eyes, a bit of butterflies in her stomach. My goodness, he was certainly very handsome. Illya just rolled his eyes at the familiar scene.

It was several days later that Higgins had occasion to meet once more with the men from UNCLE. All details were now known and the individuals involved taken into custody. MI6 would handle them now, considering the threats against British citizens. As for Valerie, she was heading back to the U.S.A., courtesy of a flight on the UNCLE jet. Napoleon promised her a night on the town once back in New York, to help make up for the trauma she had endured.

Illya stayed behind to settle some accounts and follow up the investigation into this strange affair. THRUSH had hoped to gain intelligence from Higgins as they moved on their plot to keep Valerie a hostage. It was all dissolved now into a familiar heap, the clean up mostly accomplished. Illya treated himself to some of his favorite pub food while in London, and arranged to travel back to New York with Mark, who was almost fully recovered. The British agent had met Valerie and assured her that she was forgiven. Everyone thought her very clever for having come up with the plan she did, in spite of the discomfort to Mark.

Jonathan Higgins returned to duty with MI6, but something was lacking now that he couldn't quite identify. A vacation to some place warm and tropical seemed like a good idea; perhaps he would make the long awaited trip to Hawaii.

Who knew what adventures he might find in the land of Aloha.


End file.
